The Pondering of a Confessional Poet

Infinite Melancholic Irrigation of a Tired Mind

I can remember that London scene smile that would set the tone for where the conversation would follow, words that burnt acid into my memory left hanging between the two of us, standing still as silence in the freezing air. I have years to wait I lie, I will let a thousand potential consequences of happiness pass me by before I let you go, even suspended here in this small arc of respectable spite, twisting slowly from the gently hanging cold water of sobriety surrounding me, I will let a thousand chances at peace and pleasure pass me by because I can’t let go of your hand.

Another road to nowhere, breathe in, leave out, thinking of you, leave me in the cold creature comfort of knowing for tonight the sullen wind taunting in the darkness, escaping my scrutiny you surrender, missing good bye to what you want to be alone. You, fallen from grace, and yet I would let an eternity pass without peace before I let you go, you can keep the Oxford knots and the shoe shine propriety and I will keep the peace for that short time in hand we had where there was the solace before the calm.

In this place today the seasons change, scene set: morning, 6 am, the sun shining, hello, goodbye a moments debate of constructing a conversation, oh no, you are no hero, too fucking insincere for anything more than a distraction. Yet, even lonely here, I will see an age of golden era memories slide past in the determination to never let you go, living a half life of homegrown nostalgia, and yet, it is inevitable that I will let an eternity pass before you understand I have too much time on my hands.